Someone Worthy
by okmeamithinknow
Summary: Feyre is fed up with Cassian and Nesta dancing around one another. In a fit of rage, she throws the two of them together and demands they work themselves out.
1. Chapter 1

Re-reading the series again, this quote cracked me up. The story sprung from there.

 _"_ _Believe me," I said to her, "the day you want to marry someone worthy, I'll march up to his house and hand you over."_

* * *

It's Nesta stomping around the town house that's the final straw on Feyre's proverbial camel. The final crack in the dam that sends a flood.

They, the Inner Circle which now included Feyre's sisters and a reluctant Lucian, had gone out earlier that night for yet another post war cerebration. The High Lord and High Lady ducked out first. The second trimester of pregnancy is harder on the High Lady than she cares to admit to the general populace. And herself really. So it's pretty common for the two to retire early. Feyre enjoys the rest. And Rhys, well the High Lord will take any time that he can, to dote on his mate, and the future heir to the Night Court, away from the prying eyes of their Inner Circle. When, not if, but when, his doting turns to smothering Feyre's quick to sic Cassian and Azriel on his sorry ass for bouts of late night training.

Tonight isn't one of those nights though. Tonight she just wants him, and a bed, and a mountain of pillows to cocoon her as she gets some much needed sleep. She hasn't been getting much of it lately, between bouts of random insomnia and late night meetings revolving around the post-war clean up that's still in progress.

So when Nesta storms into the townhouse sometime that's between way too early and much too late, Feyre is more than a little irritated.

Usually Rhys would handle it, or at the very least, rouse Elain to try and get Nesta under control, but since Elain and Lucian accepted the bond, they're usually off Mother knows where doing who knows what depraved activity at any given time of the night. Cauldron knows walking in on them once was enough to leave a permanent mental scar.

So it's up to him take care of whatever's vexing his wife and High Lady, but in this case, Rhys isn't sure what to do. He's seen her angry before. Seen her decimate opponents on the battlefield as though they're chaffs of wheat to be tossed into the wind. But this... Pregnant and enraged to the point of literal steam coming from Feyre as her control over water and fire slips and its directed at a family member, specifically Nesta, well he'd rather take on Jurian all over again.

It's obvious to anyone with any sense the source of Nesta's ire, even if they couldn't hear her slightly inebriated tirade as she crashes around the townhouse.

 _Cassian_

It's been months, _months,_ since the end of the war and the two of them are still dancing around one another. Only the dancing is more like an angry matachin with carefully choreographed blows of words and the occasional fist. Well more than the occasional fist, but the fault lies with Cassian for volunteering to train the hellcat.

They're mates. He knows it. His mate knows it. The entire Inner Circle knows it. Hell even the regulars at Rita's know it, but have either of them done anything about it? No. Even Az and Mor didn't make it through the war without admitting their feelings for one another.

There are bets amongst the Inner Circle. Bets as to how long they skirt the issue without ever addressing it. Bets as to when someone will actually give in. Bets as to who breaks first. Bets as to how the other will react. Bets as to how long the two of them will spend holed up in the cabin once they decide to seal the bond.

There are bets upon bets and even Azriel will be shocked that it's their High Lady who finally snaps.

"You," Feyre stabs a finger at Rhys, "Stay here."

She quickly dresses, donning practical pants and what used to be a loose fitting sweater to combat the cold. It's snug across the bump that's just started to show in the last few weeks. Boots barely laced, she throws open the door and storms down the stairs, leaving a startled Cerridwen and Nuala in her wake. Rhys can only follow, stopping to join the twins standing horror struck at the top of the stairs.

"Nesta!"

Feyre at least waits until her sister turns around before grabbing her wrist and winnowing from the townhouse. A heartbeat passes and Rhys winnows after her into the darkness to land on the steps of the House of Wind. It's the highest point to which it's possible to winnow and there are several hundred stairs left to climb. For a moment Rhys wonders what the hell his mate is thinking; if he should intervene. But he doesn't risk drawing her wrath his way this high up. Not with the safety of his mate, child, and sister-in-law possibly at risk. Not to mention the perverse curiosity that creeps through him. It's a cat kneading its claws into him, and he wants to see what comes of Feyre's plan. So he folds himself into darkness to hide from Nesta and other prying eyes, knowing that Feyre knows he's there, can feel him through the mating bond. Rhys feels a tapping on his shields and when he opens them a sliver for her, the scathing blast he receives tells him not to meddle further.

' _If I can escape the Weaver, and handle the Bone Carver, half starved and emaciated from my time in the Spring Court, I can certainly handle a set of stairs, pregnant or not,' s_ he blasts down their bond, and then adds for good measure, _'Prick.'_ before closing her mental shields again.

Still clutching Nesta's wrist, Feyre begins the trek up the steps. It's a steep climb, but Feyre's right, both women are more than physically capable of making it.

"What are you doing?" Nesta demands, attempting to wrench her hand free.

But Feyre will have none of that. Steadfast she continues the hike until the two are at the front entrance of the House of Wind, the one that those not gifted with a set of wings use to enter the house. It's only then that Feyre remembers that she does have wings, could have used them to circumvent this whole escapade. She can feel Rhys' dark chuckle down the bond and restrains herself from making a crude gesture in his direction, but just barely.

"Do you remember," she asks between huffs, finally speaking for the first time since they arrived. Yes she is more than capable of climbing the stairs, but that doesn't mean she won't be winded by it. "Do you remember what I told you, when you told me you wanted to marry Tomas Mandray?"

The question is accented by the throwing open of the behemoth doors in front of them. Nesta doesn't remember. It was so long ago. Literal years and what feels like lifetimes ago. Back when the three Archeron sisters were different people. Back when they were barely scraping by and dependent on Feyre's hunting skills to live. Back when Prythian and it's fairy stories were just myths. Back before they were remade and given Fae bodies, immortality, and powers beyond what any of them thought possible.

Nesta shakes her head, no she doesn't remember, but Feyre misses the gesture completely as she continues, marching forth with renewed purpose. She surges forward, destination fixed in her mind, though she's never been there before. Past the formal dinning hall and ballroom where they danced until dawn celebrating the end of the war. Up a flight of stairs she's yet to use before. Twists and turns through the living quarters, until they stop in front of a unassuming door.

"I told you," she growls, grabbing for the handle. "I told you _'the day you want to marry someone worthy, I'll march up to his house and hand you over.'"_

At the final word from her mouth and the door swings open revealing a completely disheveled Cassian. Shirtless and clad only in a pair of sleep pants, Nesta can only gape at him as he runs a hand through sleep mussed hair. There's no way that his keen Fae hearing will have missed Feyre's comment, and Nesta -and Rhys- wonders if she planned it that way.

"Can I do something for you ladies?" he drawls, voice full of smooth arrogance. Arrogance that's only heightened by his sleep roughed tone. He braces himself against the door with one hand above his head and if Nesta didn't know better she'd swear that the bastard is posing for the two of them, or maybe just her. He is, and he'll tell her that, one day, but for now he waits for his High Lady to answer his question.

"You," Feyre points at him, finally releasing Nesta's wrist. "She's your mate. You deal with this problem."

And with that she storms off, leaving the two of them gaping at her, at each other, in her wake.


	2. Chapter 2

What the actual heck?! I promised myself I wouldn't write for anymore fandoms, but apparently I'm knee deep Nessian trash.

* * *

"So," Cassian drawls and it's then that Nesta notices that his attention has shifted to her and away from the retreating form of his High Lady.

Rhys is gone too. Cassian knows this for certain. The High Lord of the Night Court's General Commander wouldn't have gotten where his is today if he'd let some half-assed glamour like the one Rhys is using fool him. He's spent centuries honing his senses into top form, and if Nesta, who's abilities are still in their infancies, didn't sense that they were being watched by more than just her sister, he's not about to shatter that illusion. Nesta's immunity to glamour is still a secret, even from the High Lord who is most likely just around the corner waiting to fly his wife home where he can fuss over her. Rhys will take care of one Archeron sister, so it's up to Cassian to take care of another. So he turns to Nesta, knowing their audience has left them to whatever end they find.

Nesta doesn't want to face him, face this, but it's too late for that now.

 _Mates_.

The word hangs out there, like wind sucking the air from her lungs. They're mates and she doesn't know how she's supposed to feel about it. Frustration, and confusion course through her, tinged with the smallest bit of fear. On top of all of that, a deeper rage than she knew she could posses. It's deeply rooted and she supposes she has every right to feel it. They all swirl around in her mind, and it reminds her of the eddying waters of that blasted Cauldron. While some part of her wants to cower in fear at the ramifications of Feyre's comment, she meets his gaze head on. She lets the fire in her soul wrap around her, another wall to shield her. It leaches out through her blue-grey eyes as she glares at him.

There's a distinctly predatory glint in his eye, one that she meets with equal fervor, as he rakes his eyes over her. Her wind tossed hair, a tangle of golden brown strands, that has Cassian wondering, briefly, if that's what she'd look like if she'd ever let him take her out flying. It hits him suddenly, the thought of the two of them, flying together taking in the Velaris at night, the steppes where he grew up, the mountain range that looms around them, and his arms ache with the phantom weight of her. The rumpled clothes, the same low-cut dress she wore out this evening, the one he was unable to keep his eyes off of, tells him that she hasn't gone to bed yet. As if something, he won't hazard a guess as to what because he knows and guessing would be an insult to both of their intelligences, has kept her up.

The smirk he sends her is one that she's seen before and spells trouble, but before she can get a word in edgewise, he says, "Trouble in the townhouse, I presume?"

Presume… _presume!?_

Nesta is about ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his presumptions when the night— Rita's and the drinking, her tantrum back at the town house, the trek up those gods-forsaken stairs— catch up to her, and she sways on her feet. Her knees buckle and she's in danger of falling over where she stands. But Cassian, sensing her momentary weakness, reaches out to steady her. Callous hands brush against soft skin and Cassian has to bite back a groan at the feel of her bare waist. Curse this woman who's adopted traditional Night Court garb as though she was Made for it.

Nesta's back goes ramrod straight at the touch and she suppresses a shiver. Either from the warmth bleeding into her night-chilled skin or the fact that its him, she doesn't know. She's not ready for this.

In this moment he's far too dangerous. He's still the dangerous Fae male she met in her father's house lifetimes ago. Her new Fae body, and subsequent time training with the leader of the Night Court's armies may have put her on an equal playing field physically, but she's never been able to keep him out, never been able to erect walls of ice and flames high enough, thick enough to keep him out. And now with her walls down she's far too vulnerable. She should have never let herself get into this state, where alcohol and exhaustion and the scent of sky and pine and the overwhelming presence that is Cassian tempt her to do something entirely too reckless. Panic races through her muddled brain.

And like always, Cassian can read it on her. Smells the change in her scent as she goes from rage to fear. Sees through the glare she shoots him and the hostility she attempts to send his way to her very core where she's really just battling with herself. She's torn between kneeing him in the balls again and fleeing, or maybe just collapsing on the ground as fatigue weaves it way through her bones.

His eyes soften then, just enough to make Nesta's scowl deepen.

He knows there's no use trying to talk things through right now. She's exhausted and half drunk, and this is one conversation he wants her completely present for. He wants the harsh words he knows she'll spit at him, just as he relishes every mental clash they've engaged in so far, and with this one, this most important battle of whit and wills in all his five centuries of warring, there can be no room for the errors and heightened emotions that alcohol and exhaustion bring.

So he turns her where she stands, moving to place a hand on her back to guide her to a nearby guest room. She does shudder then as the warmth of his hand seeps through the thin layer of her dress and into the small her back. He's so heartbreakingly gentle, leading her down the hall, that she almost, _almost,_ lets herself lean into feeling. She wonders what it would be like to give in to it, to be tucked into his arm, to nestle into his bare chest. Not that she's been ogling it out of the corner of her eye most of the night anyway, or memorizing the intricate tattoo across the broad plains of his chest. The tattoo she wouldn't mind tracing with her fingers, and the shock of that thought, that the walls she's so carefully crafted have come crashing down, are so completely obliterated that she might as well be standing naked before him, has her reeling.

Yet she can't bring herself to pull away and all too soon they arrive at the guest room. Its a short ways down the hall from his own; the door of his room visible from the doorway. He opens the door for her. The room is as lavishly decorated in strikingly similar colors as her room back at the townhouse, down to the overabundance of pillows and blankets that she uses to stave away the cold that seems to have followed her from the hovel she once shared with her sisters. It's a dream and beckons to her, but not as much as the male next to her. She hesitates, _hesitates_ , in the doorway. Nesta Archeron hesitates and Cassian nearly stumbles at the look on her face.

With her walls down, she looks like the young woman she really is, and not the icy queen who hides behind her anger and wrath. Her walls are down, and he refuses to do anything about it. Refuses to take advantage of any weakness. It would be one thing if it were an enemy in battle, but this is her. _Her_. And after everything she's been through. The things before the war, the way she's been treated by other males, by men. And then Hybern. He won't do that to her.

"Cassian, I…" she says in a voice she almost doesn't recognize. Its the tone she usually reserves for Elain and she's so startled by it that she's not even bothered by the fact that he's cut her off before she can say something she might regret.

"Get some sleep," he tells her.

His voice is gruff and holds enough of a commanding tone that she can see why Illyrian males follow him into battle. She blinks at him, none of the fire that's usually shining at him in her eyes, and nods slowly, a lock of hair slipping to cover part of her face. It's too tempting to resist, and carefully, so carefully, he raises a hand. He moves slowly to keep from startling her as if she's a doe lost in the middle of the forest and not the predator she really is. He tucks the strands behind one of her pointed ears, hand trailing down to cup her cheek.

"Go to bed. We'll talk about this in the morning."


	3. Chapter 3

Let's see if I can finish this sucker. Or just make it longer.

* * *

Despite the late night, Cassian is up before the sun rises. It's a routine that's so deeply ingrained in him from centuries in Illyrian war camps that regardless of how much he wants to sleep in, he can't. So he greets the dawn as it breaks over the horizon atop the House of Wind as he does most mornings, by training. The first rays of light creep over the rooftop as he moves through the stances and forms, honing his muscles through the meditative movements. It's something Rhys' mom taught him and the other boys when they were younger, to help them focus and hone the magic that flows through their veins. How she knew it, he doesn't know, and he supposes that's one secret she took to her grave. Even now though, he finds the practice, the fluid flow from one stance to another in the predawn silence, soothing.

He's surprised that Az hasn't joined him. Even on nights when he's out late with Mor, he still manages to beat Cassian to the training ring. Though Cassian suspects that the Shadowsinger's shadows have warned him to give the House of Wind a wide berth today, or maybe just a meddlesome High Lord.

He's just wrapping up one set of forms— eyes closed, wings outstretched basking in the morning light, drinking in the feel of the stretching and shifting of his muscles— when all at once the temperature shifts, going somehow scorching hot and frigid at the same time and he knows, _knows,_ she's there. He's known the moment she woke thanks to that bond. He doesn't know how long it's been there, just that the bond, the thin glimmering thing, is there and even in a city the size of Velaris, he will always be able to pick up where she is.

"There's breakfast on the table if you're hungry," he says, before she can speak.

He finishes up, listening to the scrape of the chair as she sits down and pours herself a cup of tea. He goes through the motions, and if he's taking extra care to flex and preen, well Cassian can't help it if the lighting up here is especially good. Training complete, he scrubs his face, and chest with the shirt he discarded an hour ago. The workout isn't as vigorous as some, but he's still managed to work up a sweat.

He pulls back his own chair and throws himself down unceremoniously. He grabs a roll, still warm though it's been hours since it was pulled from the oven. It's not that big of a deal, he tells himself, using that small bit of magic to keep the food warm for her, for him. It helps to bleed off some of the strain that comes from going too long without using it anyway. That Nesta is benefiting from it is just an added perk. Not that buttering her up, plying her with food and tea to help alleviate the pain from last night's bender, will keep her from tearing him to pieces.

Cassian wants to ask her if she slept well, but the lingering shadows in her eyes tells him not to ask. Instead, the two sit in silence until they've eaten their fill. Cassian stares at her unabashedly, eyes drinking her in as though it's the last time he'll ever see her, because for all he knows, this will be the day that breaks him. Not the day Az discovered news about his mother's death, or almost lost his wings. Today, he might lose her, that small piece of him he didn't know was missing until he sauntered into that manor, so long ago.

Nuala and Cerridwen must have dropped off clothes for her sometime in the night, because Nesta's party dress has been replaced by far more practical pants and a shirt the color of the Sidra at sunset. The color suits her, he thinks. Suits the girl who he can't keep his mind off of.

There's a quiet storm in her eyes, raging at him when he finally meets her eyes. A fathomless sea of questions demanding answers, and Cassian knows it's time.

"Apart from Rhys' parents I never knew anyone who was mated," he starts without preamble. "Hell if Rhys' mother hadn't been a full blooded Illyrian I wouldn't have believed Illyrians had mates. I asked Rhys once. After he and Feyre were mated." And she knows exactly when it was, after their disastrous encounter with the queens, and his oath. "He told me, described it in ways that I thought somehow that prick was in my mind; crawled inside the memories of the last time we were together and was using my own thoughts and feelings against me."

Oh yes, Cassian remembers that day. Recalls how Rhys' words filled in every crack and crevice of his soul until Cassian had come to realize what he'd known all along. That Nesta Archeron, the aggravating, haughty, beautiful woman who's staring at him with flames in her eyes, was his mate. The High Lord's dark chuckle at the look on Cassian's face was enough to send his blood boiling.

But Nesta knows none of this. Instead, she waits, brow cocked in his direction, waiting for him to continue to dig his own grave.

"And I thought," he says, words soft in the morning air, "when the war was over. If we survived; if _I_ survived, because even if the rest of the world fell to ruin I was going to make damn sure you lived through the war, then maybe, I'd tell you."

It's then that she finally speaks and her voice is filled with the venom he knows he rightfully deserves.

" _Maybe?!_ " she spits, standing to her feet. The chair falls backwards, but the clatter and clang of it goes ignored by the two on the rooftop. "Maybe!" And the word is cut off by an indignant shriek, one she didn't know she could make.

"You didn't want me," he yells, leaping to his feet as well and his chair joins hers in a weird mimicry of their argument. His next words are hushed, but still contain the same amount of bite. "My wings were in ruins; no one would want a broken Illyrian. Do you know what they do to males who lose their wings in those camps? They're killed, or left to die in the wastes. Nothing more than worthless garbage. You said so yourself. You deserved more than a bastard-born nobody. That you'd rather use your own hand than sully yourself with theirs."

 _With mine._

The words are clear in his eyes, the slump in his wings, wings that took long enough to heal that they all wondered if he'd regain the ability to fly—to fight, to lead— again. Even now fully healed, he's still plagued with phantom pains, and an ache that accompanies the weather when it threatens to storm.

And yes, Nesta remembers the words she spat at him. Remembers every word and blow, and heated look the two of them have shared since the insufferable male has walked into her life. Even if she can't recall what color dress she wore yesterday, or the day before, she remembers every word.

"So you decided you knew what I wanted? What was right for me?" Somehow before either of them realize it, she's on the other side of the table now, standing before him. "You didn't think I had the right to know?"

"You don't think I thought about that?" he demands. She's so close that his breath stirs her hair. "Of course you deserved to know, but… When they put you in that, _Cauldron…_ " his voice breaks on the word. They've never discussed this, and while both of them would claim they've never had the opportunity to, the truth is that they've both actively avoided the subject for the entirety of the war. "They took away your freedom, your ability to choose, and I…"

He breaks off, and there's pain in his eyes. Such a deep and agonizing pain that Nesta can't help but reach out to him. But Cassian turns away. Turns his back to her, unable to face her, unable face how badly he's let her down.

"I couldn't do that to you too. I couldn't take away your ability to choose. Not when I failed you so miserably."

There. He's said it, and the silence that follows gapes like the inviting maw of some mythic beast eating away at him. He's waiting, waiting for her to lash out at him again. Rake him over the coals for breaking his promise. He knows it haunts her as much as it does him.

That even with Hybern gone, and peace restored in Prythian, she's still plagued by nightmares. Still sees that day, and Elain and her and that gods-forsaken Cauldron. His breath comes in gasps just thinking about it. About how he should have made the sisters join them in Velaris back when it was an option, should have fought her harder that day at the manor. And in Hybern, through the blood and the pain and his wings.

He swore, _swore,_ to protect her house, her people, even unto the very end his existence to defend those who needed it the most. Her _, his mate._ One of the strongest Illyrians in centuries and he couldn't even protect one mortal girl.

He waits for her to fight back; for her to yell at him. Knows it's coming.

And then…

She does something he doesn't expect.

She shoves him. Shoves him hard and he's so completely caught off guard that instinct and years of defending himself against war camp bullies has him whirling on her. A snarl rips from his throat and before he can even think about what he's doing, he advances on her, throwing out a fist.

But Nesta is ready for it. She blocks and dodges and responds with a punch of her own. Again and again she rails on him. Fists connect with flesh with thuds and groans and when she thinks he's finally ready to listen she pauses to take a breath. She braces herself, arms raised.

"You didn't fail," she says, swinging her fist to hit him again, to punctuate the sentence, to drive it into his thick skull.

The conviction behind her words, and the complete lack of anger lacing her voice makes Cassian stumble and her fist connects with his cheek. He staggers back, clutching his cheekbone, where the blow is sure to leave a bruise, but he waves her off. It's almost embarrassing that one sentence from her could send him reeling like this. Make him drop his guard. It's been at least a century since someone's bested him like this and this is twice now that this wisp of a girl has managed to slip through his defenses.

"You couldn't have known," she says between gasps. Her chest is heaving, breath ragged. "You couldn't have known about Ianthe and Tamlin and the king's plans."

There's still fire in her eyes, but Cassian feels like there's something his missing. Something key as to why after everything that's happened, why she's still so angry at him. It's then he sees the truth. The truth she's buried so deeply into her heart and fortified with walls so thick that he nearly missed it. In all the time he's known her, he's always been able to read her. So how she's been able to cover this up, he hasn't a clue.

His face shifts. A predaciousness that somehow draws her in and begs her to escape at the same time. The look in his eye and the smirk—Mother above that smirk and what it does to her heart that's frantically trying to beat its way out of her chest— on his face tells Nesta she should've run, should have fled for the townhouse when she could. Because that glint in his eye, that terrifyingly cocky gleam, is the look of somebody who knows they've won.

"How long?" He asks and the sound coming out of him is more like a purr, like a cat brushing against her body begging to be stroked.

"I don't what you're talking about," she says, shaking her head in denial. But it's a lie. He knows it is and she knows that nothing she says will convince him otherwise.

"How long," he repeats. Nesta scrambles backward and it's not long before she's flush against the retaining wall. Cassian pursues her, and the cocky swagger Mor and Feyre tease him about returns to his gait. He stops just out of arms reach, in case she decides to take another swing at him, or the temptation to take her into his arms becomes too much to resist. "How long have you, Nesta Archeron, known we were mates?"

"I don't..."

"Yes, you do." And she does, and from the look on her face she's known for a while. She turns her back to him, unable to face him. "How long?" he asks and this time it's soft, less of a demand. Just a gentle nudging at her heart. One that she can't help but answer.

"At first I thought it was some Fae magic," she confesses, softly like a prayer offered in supplication up to the Mother, "That you'd tricked me, even when regular glamours don't work on me."

He's shocked at this, but then he should have realized that she saw through the glamour, to him, that day in the snow. He moves closer, close enough to brush her shoulder if he dares.

"But then…" her voice wavers, "Hybern… when they… Afterwards, when I saw you for the first time, I knew the pain that… I felt you."

She turns up to him and there's unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. He frowns at the grief he can read on her face. Grief for him, and he has to swallow the lump in his throat. He reaches to cup her cheek, thumb brushing against her smooth skin as a tear falls.

"I could feel the pain in your wings like they were my own; felt it since I came out of the wretched thing. I thought it was part of being Made. That I was just going to have to live with it for the rest of eternity. And then I saw you and I knew. Feyre had told me enough and I just knew."

The softness doesn't last long though. She retreats into herself, pulling away, falling back on what she knows. What's seen her through her life. Anger.

"It's not like it would have mattered anyway, you can get anyone you want," she spits, pulling away, throwing her walls back up. She moves to brush past him, but he snaps a wing up, keeping her from moving. "You made _that_ very clear last night at Rita's. Flirting with every available female."

And there's the crux of it. Why she's still so angry with him. Why she drank until her walls, her inhibitions, dropped, and whatever outburst that drew her sister's ire the night before.

"Why would you want me? I'm just a _bored and spoiled girl_."

"Sweetheart," he murmurs and there's far too much compassion in the word, far too much understanding. There's no bite to it. None of Cassian's usual snark, and Nesta stumbles, taken aback. But Cassian's ready for that and he catches her. She fits too well in his arms, and Nesta wants to sink into the embrace. It'd be too easy and maybe she wants easy, but still he…  
"No," she snaps, wrenching herself from his grasp. She throws another punch his way. It's lighter than the others, with significantly less force behind it as if her heart isn't really behind the action. She jabs a finger into his chest, his bare chest she realizes a little too late. "Don't you dare _sweetheart_ me like you can just sweet talk yourself out of this. Like it's all ok, like you…"

She tapers off, because then he's laughing. The deep laughter that leaves his stomach aching and gasping for breath. He's laughing at her and she's more than pissed. There's fire in her eyes again and she looks like she's ready to tear his head off or his clothes and he certainly hopes that it's the latter.

"Did you ever think I was just trying to get a rise out of you? That everything I've been doing for the last few months is to get you to admit something? You're my mate, and I wanted you, and I wasn't going to push you, but if you wanted something. If you wanted _me_ …"

But he can't finish his sentence. He can't finish because she grabs him. Tugs on his hair hard enough to make him growl, and then she's kissing him. _Nesta Archeron_ is kissing him; his mate is kissing him. His wings snap open in surprise. It's all tongue and teeth and clumsy, but it's so entirely Nesta that it consumes him. A violent raging storm and the temperature of the roof flares and he could swear he's caught fire. But he doesn't care because his _mate_ is kissing him. Hands find their way into her hair, weaving their way through golden tresses. Cassian pulls her closer, wrapping his wings around them, and she obliges him.

He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and she melts into his arms. Supple flesh melts against his hardened body and he groans into her mouth. Her hands leave his hair. Delicate fingers travel the length of his neck, down to his chest and he swears the feeling of flying, the freedom and joy and absolute rapture, pale in comparison to this one moment in time. This moment when it's him and her and they're wrapped in his wings and everything, _everything,_ is perfect.

Nibbling on her lower lip, Cassian pulls a whimper from her, and for a moment he wonders who this creature before him is. The one who attacks him so boldly and stirs him into this fervor and then whimpers. He feels something in him, the bond he'll realize later, snap and that thing that burns low in his belly begs him to take her, to claim her there on the rooftop.

His mate.

He pulls back for a second to let her catch her breath, but he can't resist the siren call of her blood and her scent. He peppers kisses down the side of her neck. Lingering in places, sucking, leaving marks so that all the world will know she's claimed. That she's his.

She is flames and ice and steel and she's his, and he is hers. She's burning. Burning. She is a fire blazing brightly across fields and amongst the star flecked night. But if she's a wildfire, then he'll burn right along with her.

He meets her lips again, crushing his lips against hers. She moans as he presses his tongue against the seal of her lips. And when he finally, _finally,_ leans back, gives her space to breathe, he laughs. Laughs because she's just as dazed as he is, and the joy he feels flickering down that bond he realizes is hers.

"You are mine," she growls, and that thing inside him purrs at the words and the proprietorial tone she uses, the fierce declaration that's steel and flames and ice and cuts straight to the heart of him. "And no damn Cauldron, or shattered wings, or _female_ will change that."

Cassian wants to yell, to shout his delight for the whole city to hear. But instead, he looks down at Nesta—looks down at his mate. The one he fought so hard for, the one he thought would never accept him— and with all the gravity he can muster, which isn't much, says, "Of course, sweetheart, of course."

* * *

 _Fin_


End file.
